


The Antihistamine Approach

by cosmiccastles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Character, Burns, Cigarettes, Dermatillomania, Dermatophagia, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest, Insomnia, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Smoking, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Characters, Trans Male Character, Trichophilia, Trichotillomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmiccastles/pseuds/cosmiccastles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blister packs and uncapped bottles – medicine and soda – litter the ground around his feet, and you can tell he’s going to make an effort to sleep tonight. He has so much more drive than you, you who drive until you crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Antihistamine Approach

**Author's Note:**

> wow thats a lot of tags, most of them useless  
> this is just a brief little thing i wrote yesterday instead of doing my biology homework  
> i tagged it with trans characters because even though literally no mention is made in this fic of both striders being trans dudes, theyre both trans dudes okay, sorry i dont make the rules  
> this is just kind of a weird self-indulgent 1k heap of fic i hope u enjoy these strange nasty men

As usual, you’re not even going to bother trying to sleep tonight. You stand in the kitchen, nursing a mug of black coffee because you can’t be bothered to snag the sour half and half from the mire of weaponry that is the fridge. The statistical likelihood of it being cleaved through with a butterfly knife is whack-ass fucking high anyways, so it’s a useless effort regardless.

The counter is riddled with the usual suspects of nearly empty lighters, stray shuriken, and a few piles of half-eaten, half-scorched hair, as well as your latest experiment of an old maggot-riddled steak in an empty butter container. The rotten smell just blends in with the general reek of the apartment, so it doesn't bother either of you any. Your bladder aches numbly with the need to piss, but you’ll hold it for now.

Your brother’s bunkered down in his usual spot on the futon, toying with his phone, humming a steady, off-key note. Though he can certainly lay down beats like the best of them, the poor guy can’t actually sing worth a damn. Not that singing’s what he’s aiming for – it comforts him. Honestly, it comforts you, too, blending into the white noise of the AC unit rattling to dubious life, the faint electric buzz of his rig, the soft creep of mildew into the cracks between the tiles. You’re so high up that not even the siren sounds of traffic can get to you, an enclave of hell up in the heavens. But you’re a crimson-eyed heathen, him a shameless sinner, so you’re alright with it. 

Your coffee’s watery. That’s what you get for drinking instant. Too hot to slam, you slurp at it as you make your way towards the futon, loudly so as to alert him to your presence. You know he already knows you’re there, in that latent way of his, but judging by the pitch of his hum, he’s anxious, so you’ll cut him some slack. Your bro throws a wicked hook when he’s startled.

When you reach the futon, you realize he’s gnawing ceaselessly at his fingers, the sound coming from the base of his throat. Such are the talents of a ventriloquist. You look at him with your festering fruit eyes, and it just makes you feel even more tired. Blister packs and uncapped bottles – medicine and soda – litter the ground around his feet, and you can tell he’s going to make an effort to sleep tonight. He has so much more drive than you, you who drive until you crash. His shades are off, pit bull pupils wide and unseeing as he gazes at the wall, absorbed by his compulsion, catching stray strips of skin with his tongue. His hands look gnarled, but you know they’re soft. 

Silently, you slide to sit next to him. Your mug’s burning your palm, but you don’t set it down or shift your grip. You want your hands to be like his, smooth and asbestos. You’ve got to scorch off the tender flesh first. Quietly, you say his name, but it barely makes a chip in his barrier. Sometimes it takes a bit of chiseling. He doesn’t mean to close himself off like this, but it happens. This time, you have to reach over and pry his hand from his mouth. That gets his attention, fingers flicking off his lip with the same sort of soft, slick sound as a parted kiss. You offer him a small smile, and his eyes blink into the vague impression of life.

“I’m turning in for the night.” You tell him, hand still in yours, running your thumb across his scabbed knuckles. Your print’s worn to nothing from blisters and burning, having indulged the impulsive need to snuff out your lighter with your skin. His nod’s small, and he seems small, too, skinny and yet swollen with sleeplessness. You hope he can get some rest tonight. The poor wretch deserves it. The two of you spend a few moments just looking at each other, his gaze far more vacant, and you can already see him fading back away, teeth worrying at his lip and peeling off the skin there.

“Y’wanna make breakfast together in the morning?” He asks in that rapid, stiff way of his, mouth barely moving, words running together like slurry or sewage. Over 30 years and he’s still not used to speech, and most of the talking that he does do is through closed lips – objects have always done his talking for him. The question’s a sweet one, and it makes your guts turn over in the best of ways. “Sure.” You reply, giving his hand a squeeze. It’s beyond a dead fish. At this point, it’s just stinking bones for a dog to roll in and get matted in its fur. “We can make whatever you want.”

His gaze drifts away towards the floor, focusing in on his bong, nestled beneath crumpled back issues of GameBro. Mentally, you make a note to get stoned together sometime soon, you haven’t done that in a long time. It’ll put a smile on his face. “Okay.” He says softly, and you know that’s as much as you’re gonna get out of him tonight. Sighing, though not sadly, you stand, hand still melting against the solar heat of the ceramic, the other sliding from his grasp. With his other hand, your bro’s begun to pick at a particularly persistent zit on his jaw, one you’ve mouthed at many a time. In a strange way, the gesture makes your stomach swim with sentimentality. 

You know his gaze isn’t going to move, so you’re the one that has to do all the moving, leaning down while you tip his chin up to face you. “Goodnight,” you murmur, pecking him on the lips. “I love you.” He tastes like cigarettes and Nyquil. You really hope he’s able to rest.

And that’s how you leave him, half-naked and clawing at his acne, as you retreat into your room, closing the door and making your way to your own bed. Your half-empty mug of coffee gets put on your bedside table and is swiftly replaced in your grasp by an old pill bottle. Popping it open with practiced ease, you draw out stray hair of his that you’ve collected over the past few days. He’s been pulling a lot lately. As you lay down, you put a few strands in your mouth to suck and chew on, the others held between your fingers as you brush them against your cheeks, eyelids, jaw. The sensation has your head swimming with a haze of comfort, and you glance at your clock, glowing 3:17 in crimson. Stroking his hair along your face, you feel your eyelids beginning to droop. Who knows? Maybe even you will be able to get some sleep tonight.


End file.
